


Every Night (Writing Prompt)

by cupan_taetae (syubology)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Love, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Avengers (2012), Writing Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syubology/pseuds/cupan_taetae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "When I’m on the edge of insanity, I’d hope you’d come to save me."</p>
<p>It's been almost six months since the Chitauri attacked Manhattan and Tony Stark is wracked with nightmares. But who'd have thought his bad dreams would lead him to realise what matters most?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Night (Writing Prompt)

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is not only welcome, I'm begging for it! I write a lot, but this is my first ever piece of fanfiction, featuring one of my favourite OTPs. This is moody and I almost never do moody, so any constructive criticism will be much appreciated!
> 
> Happy reading :')

In the darkness behind his closed eyes, he sees it every night. He sees the stars, the vast expanse of outer space, empty and beautiful. He sees the Earth below him, a ball of blue and clouds. It’s extraordinary at first, floating, weightless, watching the world spin from the stillness of the stars. But then he feels the tug, the pull, the stab of terror in his chest as he realises he’s falling. His suit is powerless, an iron prison instead of the armour he’s always felt so safe encased in. He’s swallowed by clouds and his screams are drowned out by the rushing of air into his lungs every time he opens his mouth. The world blossoms into view underneath him as the clouds slip away, toy towers and cars as small as bugs, roads and streets like lengths of twisting string. Smoke rises to meet him in thick, dark plumes. The devastation is everywhere, chunks torn out of buildings, roofs caved in, the orange-red winking of a thousand fires.  
And Tony is tumbling through the air towards it all. He is hyperaware of everything. He can feel his heart galloping at a mile a minute in his chest, his stomach twisting from all the spinning. He can feel the beads of sweat blooming from his pores, trickling along his skin or chilling in the wind and making him shiver. The stinging in his eyes and nose from the rushing cold all around him, the ache in his throat from holding back sobs of terror.  
Yes, the great Tony Stark struggling not to cry — who’d have thought it? But when you are close enough to your own death to smell the smoke, to see the cracks in the pavement, to hear the screaming of the people you just saved, _you_ try playing the stoic badboy. Tony Stark’s suit might be made of iron, but that’s where it stops, and people forget this. In fact, Tony’s pretty sure even he’d forgotten it until that day, the fall from the sky, as he hurtled toward the ground and realised that he was going to die and that for once, there was nothing he could do about it. _Nothing._  
Too late, he was suddenly reminded that he’s just as mortal as the next guy.  
Every night, he still feels that weight settling in his stomach, the ball of lead that crashed into him as he watched the top of the tallest building slip past him. Every night, he feels the same hopeless acceptance, the surrender, followed by the surge of frustration when acceptance doesn’t lead to peace. His fight burns out, but the terror stays on, clawing at his chest, creeping down his spine and into his bones, chilling him all over as he stares up into the clouds he just fell from. Every night, one thought, one _desperate_ thought runs through his head on a constant loop: _He does not want to die like this._  
But he turns his head and sees his reflection in the dark windows of the building next to him, still falling, still hurtling toward the street below, screams and shouts, and then — a roar.  
 _Tony…_  
A roar so powerful and determined that it sends shiver through his whole body…  
‘ _Tony_!’  
They aren’t shivers. There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Tony gasps and jack-knifes upright, his legs tangled in the sheets, his hair pasted to his neck and temples with cold, clammy sweat. He’s trembling all over, his fingers blurred as they reach up and clutch at his hair. He leans forward in bed, resting his elbows on his knees, and he sucks desperately at the air, his lungs refusing to cooperate, still strangled by the fear left over from the nightmare — the same old nightmare.  
It’s been almost six months since the Chitauri attacked Manhattan. Beyond the windows of Stark Tower, the scaffolding and merciless roadblocks signal that repair of the city is well underway. But Tony can’t say the same thing for himself. Physically, his cuts and bruises and broken bones are barely shadows of memories, but every night, the dream. It’s always the same, but it never gets old and it never gets easier.  
Tony feels the bed move and an arm slipping around his shoulders, warm against his clammy skin. Bruce pulls him towards him and Tony doesn’t fight it. He shuts his eyes and lets his head rest against Bruce’s shoulder, feeling his lips in his hair.  
‘You’re alright,’ Bruce whispers.  
He is. Tony knows that. And he knows that the only reason he’s alright is because of Bruce. He saved him then and he’s saved him every night since, without fail. Because Tony has never once died in his dreams. He’s always woken up right before he hits the ground and he’s always woken up by Bruce’s voice, by a warm, callused hand on his shoulder.  
Tony twists in Bruce’s grip, one smooth manoeuvre and he’s straddling the other scientist’s lap. A corner of Bruce’s mouth quirks up, deep brown eyes shining in the dark as Tony leans in and snags Bruce’s top lip between his own. His fingers trail his jaw as they move up to tangle through the unruly dark waves of Bruce’s hair. He feels hands slide up his back, fingertips digging in and pulling him closer, until their chests are flush, bare skin on bare skin, scorching heat compared to the cold chill of Tony’s nightmare. He deepens the kiss, eases his tongue past Bruce’s lips, feels teeth grazing his lower lip and Bruce’s hands starting to stray underneath the waistband of his boxers. A low, appreciative groan rolls from somewhere deep in Tony’s chest and it takes every bit of restrain the has to break the kiss — because he has to say it now, before he gets carried away by what Bruce’s fingers are getting up to.  
He pulls back and Bruce follows for a moment, until he realises that Tony’s pulling back for a reason. He opens his eyes and Tony can see his dishevelled reflection in them, tired eyes and tousled hair. He rests his forehead against Bruce’s, their noses side-by-side, the middle finger of Bruce’s right hand tracing maddening circles at the small of Tony’s back.  
‘What’s wrong?’ Bruce asks, frowning, his voice a little husky from all the excitement. ‘Not in the mood?’  
Tony gives him a look. ‘Me? Really?’  
Bruce grins, flopping back into the pillows, tugging Tony with him. ‘Then, what?’ he asks, shivering as Tony — unable to resist — nibbles lightly at his earlobe.  
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ Tony murmurs into his neck.  
‘I’ll try not to,’ Bruce says, sounding dubious. ‘Though, if this is another one of your penguin theories—’  
‘It’s not about the penguins.’ Tony props himself up on an elbow to look at Bruce. ‘It’s about you.’  
Bruce frowns, concern creeping into his dark eyes. ‘What about me?’ he asks, and Tony can tell, just from the panic in his eyes and the edge to his tone, that Bruce is expecting something awful. It doesn’t seem to matter how long they’ve been living together, sleeping together — Bruce is just so used to being shunned and hunted that it’s what he expects at every turn.  
But Tony isn’t afraid of him — or the Other Guy. He never has been. He was curious, curiosity turned to intrigue and intrigue turned to comfort. Now, there’s no one he’d rather be lying here with, no one whose forehead he’d rather lean down and kiss to smooth out the frown-line.  
‘I love you,’ Tony whispers.  
It’s the first time he’s said it and the words feel weird on his tongue, but it’s a good weird — a very good weird. An even better weird when Bruce curls a hand into his hair and drags him into a long, hard kiss that leaves them both breathless.  
‘I loved you first,’ Bruce replies, with a playful grin that sends tingles into every corner of Tony’s body and shatters the last of his restraint.  
And as he melts into Bruce, he knows that those words were not wasted. He waited years to say them to someone he felt would venture out over the edge of everything just to bring him back, safe and alive. And he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that that person is Bruce Banner.

**Author's Note:**

> I got my writing prompt here, if you're interested: http://quizilla.teennick.com/stories/20058265/writing-fanfiction-a-big-list-of-writing-prompts


End file.
